


The Shattered Teacup

by LilithRising



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, God Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Heavy Angst, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25137655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilithRising/pseuds/LilithRising
Summary: Repairing a relationship that spans 6,000 years isn't like fixing broken crockery, but oh Crowley wished it were. Together he and Aziraphale have to mend the cracks, while helping the other to find their own self worth after a separation puts distance between them. Discoveries are made and both re-emerge stronger than before.Sorry folks, I really don't do well with summaries!Basically Crowley screws up and almost loses the best thing of his existence. This is them learning to trust each-other again, and work together to fully separate from Heaven and Hell.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	1. Prologue-As the World Turns

Hello All, this is my first fic in a very long time, and my first for the fandom! Hopefully I will do the boys justice! This is an idea completely of my own making, any similarities to other works are purely coincidental, and no offense is intended. Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! No Beta all mistakes are my own!

This story is set post apoca-not, when the two now reside in South Downs. I’m fudging the timeline a bit here, but hopefully it will make sense. The relationship is established, but it gets a bit…dicey. Prepare yourself, there will be much angst, but I promise it will get better, just might take a bit! Tags/warnings will be changed as the story proceeds. The rating is also subject to change, depending on how I feel it fits the story.

Prologue-As the world turns

There are many things you can’t plan for in life, make the being immortal, and those situations multiply infinitely. Everything had been peaceful for nearly two years since the failed apocalypse, almost like a fantasy, both sides taking that ‘breathing space’ Crowley had mentioned. The first few months both Aziraphale and Crowley spent visiting restaurants, seeing plays, and enjoying many a bottle of wine in the cozy back room of the bookshop. Emancipation from both Heaven and Hell had made both beings considerably more at ease, that wasn’t to say they changed entirely, oh no. Crowley still enjoyed his bouts of mischief, the good old penny on the sidewalk trick always made him cackle, as Aziraphale would roll his eyes fondly at his antics. As for Aziraphale, he continued to not sell his books, enjoy various delicacies from the local establishments, and was more than generous with his frivolous miracles. Couldn’t hurt, nobody was keeping score, and it gave him joy to make the humans' days at least a little bit better.

Eventually both decided that London, while wonderful, had been their place of residence for the better part of...well they honestly couldn’t recall, it was time for a change either way. The South Downs offered peace and tranquility that both needed, Crowley in particular. The gardens provided an escape, a place to create and nothing brought him more joy than seeing the soft smile that came across his partner's face when he would bring his haul into the well appointed, yet rustic kitchen. Another pleasure they shared, cooking together, many evenings were spent in easy companionship and playful banter over a home cooked meal. Aziraphale, a collector at heart moved his favorite books, which were most of them in honesty, to the miracle created library in the house. Any hour of the day he could be found there nestled into his favorite worn chair, absurd little reading glasses perched on his nose as he poured over the written word.

Perhaps the most unsurprising development was in their relationship. Crowley had always loved Aziraphale, that was no surprise, while he had never outright said it, his actions always spoke far louder. Aziraphale for his part had always known that what he felt for the demon went beyond the bonds of friendship, but it still took him time to acknowledge it after they were finally free. Crowley, still wary, let the angel lead the way. It was a slow progression, starting with fleeting touches, leading to shy chaste kisses to the temple or forehead, and eventually the lips. Countless hours were spent between exquisite sheets both laid bare as the day of creation learning the taste and feel of the other. Aziraphale was quite, pleasantly, surprised to learn that both remained on the same playing field when it came to pleasures of the flesh, meaning neither angel nor demon had any experience whatsoever. This of course never deterred either, relishing in the ability to learn together finding joy in the deeper intimacy that such a profound connection created. If asked, not that he would divulge,-- a gentleman never aired his private affairs--Aziraphale would describe the demon as a gentle and generous lover, he very much got pleasure from giving. Crowley for his part, in the rare occasion when Aziraphale decided to ‘take the lead’ as it were, soaked it all in. He had never felt so cherished in his long miserable existence, more-so in those quiet hazy moments trading whispered words and touches basking in the intimate connection they now shared. It made his battered broken soul sing. 

Sadly, like all good things something had to give. 

Crowley leaned against the rock wall of the garden watching as the impending storm came across the ocean and towards the shore. This truly was paradise, rolling hills, a long line of rocky shore and the endless expanse of glittering turquoise water.. A quaint town, known for tourism, but still managed to maintain the old age charm of a sleepy seaside village. Then there was the cottage, unassuming on the outside, but well appointed due to a few--several-- well placed miracles, flanked by a small front yard, and an even better one out back complete with a perfect greenhouse where Crowley kept his most prized specimens. He had spent most of the day in the garden tending his plants with more care and reverence than he ever had, but his mind was far away, still lost in the conversation that had occurred barely twenty four hours previous. Although, conversation would be a loose term. For all his bravado and careless attitude Crowley felt the first true spike of fear run down his spine, a feeling he had not experienced since the night he had begged Aziraphale to run away to the stars with him. Oh, how times had changed, if he asked now he was certain the angel would say yes without pause. But that was yet another fantasy, just as impossible as it was the first time he asked. He pulled the scrap of charred paper out of his pocket, at least he hoped that it was paper, this was Hell, it could be something far worse.

_Hastur, Duke of Hell has evoked Right of Blood Debt_

So much for Hell not sending rude notes.

Time was up. He should have considered that as a possibility, it was rare, but the destruction of Ligur had snapped the proverbial string somewhere in the demons' already addled mind. Revenge would happen any way that Hell could swing it, in this case, they couldn’t attack him directly so they went after him the way they knew best. Aziraphale. He didn’t know how long they would pursue it, or how he might be able to persuade them to let it go, but there was one thing for certain, he wouldn’t let his angel get caught in the middle of his problems. This was going to hurt, more than falling ever had.

Dinner was a quiet affair, low candles, fine wine, and a bouquet of fresh flowers from the garden. If Aziraphale had any idea that something was off, he didn’t mention it. They retired to the sitting room soon after with a glass of scotch each. Aziraphale as usual sat with a book, Crowley content to simply stretch out, head cradled in his angels lap as he read. He tried to imprint the feel of Aziraphale’s fingers threading through his hair, the occasional scritch of neatly manicured nails against his scalp.

Never had he wanted to freeze time more, stay in this one nebulous moment until he ceased to exist.

***

Crowley took one last look over the angel's sleeping form, his pale skin gleamed in the moonlight. Platinum curls, mussed from where Crowley had gripped them earlier, curled around his ears. His lips parted, breathing low and soft in the empty room. Crowley bit back a whine, he looked so content, completely oblivious to the struggle brewing in the one standing mere feet away. Careful not to wake his beloved the demon reached out, letting one long fingered hand gently cup his cheek, marveling at the softness of the smooth skin. This very well could be the last time he got this chance. Aziraphale snuffled and leaned into the touch making Crowley squeeze his eyes shut willing the burning behind his eyelids not to spill over. Reluctantly he removed his hand. His serpentine eyes raked over the angel's form, covered only by a thin sheet, beauty etched in marble, he burned the image into his mind, it would be enough to keep him going. It had to be.

On silent feet he left the room, closing the door, an act of finality. Checking downstairs, the letter he knew his angel would find in the morning, barely even offering solace for the hurt he was about to cause and a vase of flowers, with a meaning more profound than his poorly written word lay on the scrubbed wooden table. He considered destroying both and simply leaving, but no Aziraphale deserved better than that. If he was going to break the angel's heart he at least owed him an explanation, as half-assed as it was. It would never be enough. He was lingering now, just prolonging the inevitable, but he couldn’t just leave, not without trying to store every good memory of this place, of Aziraphale, in his mind just in the chance that he would never return.

Walking out the door was easily the hardest thing he had done, even with all the temptations over the years, the Flood, even that argument over the Holy Water didn’t sting and make him balk as much as the quiet click of the front door. He quite thought he would have rather it had banged closed. And despite the drain on his battered soul the last minutes had evoked what he was about to do had the ability to do him in completely.

There are many misconceptions about falling, enough so that Crowley wouldn’t be surprised if they filled several volumes. The first was that there was only one way or method of falling, not true. He had always joked that he more of “sauntered vaguely downwards” which wasn’t entirely wrong. Others, like Hastur dove headfirst, no hesitation. The Morning-Star himself had been pushed, but everyone knew that, although perhaps saying ‘pushed’ was far too polite for what actually happened. Crowley always said he fell due to guilt by association, and indeed he did, but despite that he firmly believed, even now, millennia later that he made a much better demon than he did an angel. That aside, he never was fully cast out, which was yet another unique part of him. He didn’t know if it was one of Her jokes, but even now he still held scraps of his holy power, the power to create, to protect. After all, he was the only demon below that kept his wings, black as they were. It had to count for something.

He drew on that ethereal power now, reaching far within himself, rousing it from the depths of his tarnished soul. It stung. His wings came forward, unbidden, glowing with a soft gold. He let the power sweep over the house, a barrier, protecting all who lay within, in this case, just Aziraphale. This also blocked the residual infernal traces that his presence had left, masking them so completely that even the best of hell-hounds wouldn’t be able to make the connection. Concentrating a bit more he condensed part of the shield, surrounding Aziraphale himself, warding off all harm, he hoped it would be enough. It had to be. The glow slowly receded, Crowley collapsed to his knees reaching up to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. Surprisingly he could still feel a pulse of Heavenly power within, he dared to hope for just a moment that perhaps he hadn’t been completely forsaken. 

His job done he sighed, rising from his knees. He had done all he could, at least for now. He spared one last glance at his home eyes lingering on the upstairs window.

“I’m sorry Angel.” He whispered to the stars. A beat later and he was gone, leaving nothing behind but a dust cloud that settled only seconds later. Crickets continued to sing, the stars twinkled just as bright. Upstairs Azirphale rolled over, none the wiser as to what had just transpired.

The only thing to note was that far away, across the sea of sand it rained, for the first time in years and this time there was no angel to protect the demon who stood, once again, where it all began.


	2. Cut Me Open, Watch Me Bleed

Chapter 1:Cut Me open, watch me bleed

There were many things that Aziraphale indulged in that the other angels always scorned him for. Food, drink, possessions--of the non demonic sort-- and most recently, sleep. That had come along with his co-habitation with Crowley, and he would be remiss if he said he didn’t like it, perhaps more than he should. There was something strangely cathartic in the act of sleeping, not only was it practical for humans on a basic biology level, but it had this way of invigorating them, even the act of a short kip could do wonders for their moods. In fact one of his other newly found pastimes had been just that, it wasn’t odd for Crowley to come inside after time in the garden to find Aziraphale asleep in his chair, book forgotten. Perhaps the countless years without sleep had finally caught up to him.

It had progressed from there and most nights found the two tangled together in a mound of soft sheets and feather-beds. They had at least come to an agreement on the bedding, as much as Aziraphale insisted tartan was stylish, Crowley stood firm on the fact that he refused to sleep in any bed with tartan sheets. They had settled instead for bone colored sheets and a soft muted blue for the duvet. It of course wouldn’t be a bed fit for his angel’s high standards if it wasn’t nearly overcome with various throw pillows, and if one of them just happened to be tartan, well, Crowley didn’t say a thing.

Still, despite sleep being quite loved by the angel he was not nearly as good at it as Crowley, master of sleep that he was. He after all had slept away the better part of a century, granted those had been extenuating circumstances. Yet, even humans managed to make remarkable feats of sleep, although usually due to chemical imbalance or puberty. Warlock had been quite enamored with ‘sleeping in’ as he called it, and often would be in a right foul mood if woken. 

But in this particular case, Aziraphale being in fact an angel, and not going through puberty, nor with any chemical imbalances thank you very much, had none of the atypical reasons as to why he slept for the first month of Crowley’s absence.

The reason was a bit more complicated than one would initially assume. If asked about it Aziraphale would liken his extended sleep to the idea of an overloaded fuse--let's keep in mind he has a very rudimentary idea of electrical work-- The barrier Crowley had erected had somewhat short circuited his brain during his sleep wake cycle and the reboot took a while to come through, 36.7 days to be exact. 

This idea was great, but also completely wrong.

The actual answer was in fact that a certain omnipotent being encouraged the extended nap in hopes that things would smooth over, whether they realized this or not is still unknown. Best not to speculate.

***

Aziraphale woke slowly, eyes blinking, hand reaching out across the expanse of the bed to find Crowley’s usual spot empty. This wasn’t completely uncommon, particularly considering the activities of the night before. He did know that the demon often would rise early if the day was to be hot, so that he could tend to his plants and spend the hotter part of the day either basking or enjoying the seaside with Aziraphale. He rolled over, sat up, and glanced over at Crowley’s side. His brows creased in confusion. The nightstand was empty, devoid of the usual clutter the demon had on it, including the book he had convinced Aziraphale to read to him. Once more, the bed was made up, Crowley never made the bed, much to his chagrin.

_ “What’s the point, angel?” he had asked once. “I’m just going to get back in it. Or we will find some other way to mess it up.” _

The conversation had quite obviously been waylaid after that.

Smiling at the memory Aziraphale stood, snapping his fingers, and was dressed for the day. He usually enjoyed the simplicity of dressing himself by hand, particularly now that Crowley had convinced him to expand his wardrobe a bit. He always took pride in his appearance, although in a different way than the demon. Now instead of his usual waistcoat and jacket ensemble he had quite a large selection of sweaters, button downs and finely pressed slacks. He still wore bow-ties of course, but had even branched out, finding all types of fun little patterns and colors.

A tingle raised the hairs on the back of his neck as he flicked his fingers, making the bed. Something was wrong. He poked his head into the adjoining bath, nothing, except a fine layer of pollen that had coated all the surfaces, making the white quartz appear dingy. Aziraphale felt his stomach flip, that wasn’t right.

“Crowley, dear?” He called out, perhaps the demon would have an explanation. Nothing. Just the sounds of birds outside answered.

Cautiously he descended the stairs, wary that there might be unwanted intruders in their home. His office was empty, so was the second bedroom, even the sitting room. The angel hoped that maybe the demon had simply fallen asleep on the couch and hadn’t heard him call. Stranger still was that same dusting of pollen over every surface. He liked to think he kept a tidy household, and for this to appear overnight was odd indeed.

A flash of red out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned, mouth opened in greeting. But what he saw wasn’t the usual shock of red hair from his favorite demon, but the bright crimson bloom of a rose in a vase on the kitchen table. The crease in his brow deepened further as he inspected the rest of the arrangement. A single rose, flanked by a spattering of forget-me-nots and vibrant sunflowers, tendrils of ivy curled among the blooms spilling over the side. It was easily the strangest assortment that Aziraphale had seen. The fluttering of paper pulled his attention away from the flowers. Taking the remaining few steps across the room he approached the table and leaned down. The ink was faded, as if it had been sitting in the sun, but the writing was definitely Crowley’s.

_ Aziraphale, _

_ I have never had a way with words like you have, so I know this letter might mean nothing in the end. I’m sorry I left, believe me when I say I never wanted to, but it is beyond my control. I did it to keep you safe, everything I do is for you. I don’t know if I will ever be back, it might never be safe. I used the last of my angelic power to put a barrier around the house, it will keep you safe, they can’t touch you. I know none of this makes sense, and I wish I could explain, but that would only make you vulnerable. All I ask is that you don’t come looking for me, promise me this. Just knowing your safe will be enough. I love you, I always have, always will. _

_ -Crowley _

Aziraphale’s hand shook as he read the letter, his eyes stung, and the feeling of unease that he had since waking only got worse. Crowley had left, left him, their life together, and for what? To keep him safe? Safe from what? From whom? 

The letter crunched in his hand as the tears finally spilled over. Crowley had been right, the letter offered nothing, no explanation, no reason. Although with the way that his heart was breaking at the moment he doubted that even the best presented explanation complete with diagrams could have made the situation any better. Through the haze of tears Aziraphale looked over the bouquet of flowers.

A single red rose--I still love you

Forget-Me-Nots--Don’t forget me; Remember us

Sunflowers--Adoration

Ivy--Fidelity

In his own strange way this odd mixture of plants had been another one of Crowley’s signs of affection. He knew how much Aziraphale adored the language of flowers, how he always would point out little nuances of the bouquets they would see sold at the grocer. He reached out and brushed one of the petals of the rose, instantly the entire arrangement collapsed, withering away, petals shriveling up and littering the table. Aziraphale let out a sob which he quickly tried to stifle with a hand over his mouth. Legs shaking he managed to sit down in the chair, hand reached out, now tracing over the dead leaves of the ivy. A spark of Crowley's essence still remained, these must have been flowers he grew, and yet they died, did that mean? 

Aziraphale reached out with his senses, he could barely feel traces of the demon, they were faint, faded. Closing his eyes letting a few more tears fall he reached further, and bumped into a soft barrier. He pushed, probing it, it felt similar to Crowley, but not, the words from the note came to his mind, angelic power. So this was what the demon’s aura had been before his fall. It would be easy enough to break, dissolve the barrier, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Aziraphale reined himself in, it was too much. 

He read over the letter again, looking for a second meaning, as if everything would suddenly become clear. A breeze gusted through the open window, shaking the dead flowers and tipping the vase over.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed reaching out to right it, noticing absently that there was no water in the bottom. A fleeting thought came to mind. The pollen dust, the flowers, the faded ink…..how long had he actually been asleep? 

Could Crowley, no, he wouldn’t. Would he?

How didn’t matter at the moment though, he needed to know how long he had been sleeping.

He tucked the letter in his pocket and unsteadily got to his feet, shuffling down the hallway to his office. Crowley had insisted just shortly after the failed apocalypse that Aziraphale ‘get with the modern age’, and as such bought him a mobile phone.

__ _ “Trust me, angel, you will thank me.” he said, handing over the slim black device. Aziraphale looked at it skeptically as if it were a rabid animal. “Oh for Satan’s sake Angel, it won’t explode, and now you can call me, from anywhere.” _

__ _ “I have a perfectly functioning phone here,” he refuted, pointing to the rotary phone on the desk. _

_ Crowley pinched his nose. “Yes, but this is for when you aren’t here.” _

__ _ The angel considered this for a moment, “But then usually I’m with you.” _

__ _ “Gahh, just take the bleeding phone Aziraphale.” he growled. _

__ _ “Oh fine,” he huffed in response, pocketing the device, giving the demon a small smile. “I suppose I should say thank you.” _

__ _ “Ngk,” Crowley grunted “Don’t mention it.” _

Loathe as he was to admit it, Crowley had been right, the mobile phone had come in handy several times, and yet he still wasn’t as attached to it as the demon was. And also unlike the demon he didn’t much approve of electronics in the bedroom, and would always give the other man a look when he insisted on scrolling his various social media while lounging. The bed was for sleeping, and well, you get the point.

The mobile was sitting tucked in its nifty little charging stand on his desk, right where he left it the night before, well at least what he thought had been the night before. With shaking hands he pressed the power button, and waited. The display flashed, asking for the pin, which he readily entered. A second flash.

The phone dropped to the desk with a clatter, a month, 37 days, he had been asleep the entire time. A second thought hit him just as rapidly. 

Crowley hadn’t come back.

It was as if this realization made that one little part of his brain finally clue in, the part still hoping that somehow this was an odd dream. A sob tore through his corporation like no sound ever had, even his ears couldn’t discern if it was his own body that made the noise. It was a howl, deep, guttural, and had anyone been around to hear they would have described it as ‘the worst sound they had heard’. The cry was anguish, loss, regret, and anger all wrapped into one. Aziraphale lost his will to stand in that moment, crumpling to his knees as his wings sprang forward to slow his fall. He landed in a heap, wings haphazardly draped over himself as he sobbed on the floor. Never in all his existence had he felt such pain, he couldn’t breathe, in that moment completely forgetting that he didn’t actually  _ need _ to. 

The trouble with living for 6,000 years is that you end up with memories that never go away. For Aziraphale as he lay prostrate on the ornate carpet flashes of his countless years on Earth assaulted him. He remembered the day on the wall, Crowley, open and jovial, complete opposite from what the angel had been warned about with regard to demons. The day of the Flood, how the demon had balked at the idea of the children being drowned along with everyone. The musky alehouse of Rome, the first time he had seen Crowley with glasses, he had been in a mood that evening, but Aziraphale had never had the courage to ask why. He whined, recalling the first true argument they had gotten into in London, that cursed Holy Water had made such a separation between the two, Aziraphale’s heart had ached for a long time after that. Hundreds of moments, some long, others fleeting assaulted his minds eye sending shocks of pain and misery through his already taxed body.

Still unable to breathe, Aziraphale managed to struggle to his feet, his mind still lost in the past. The floor was no place to have a breakdown. The few steps to the worn leather couch felt like agony, his chest was tight, and he briefly wondered if he was having a heart attack. Could he even have one?

By this point his corporation seemed to be out of tears, but hadn’t received the message as his eyes still burned, throat raw and achy, and nose running almost worse than it ever had when he was crying. It had been quite a while since he had cried, and never had it been this severe. Over the millennia there had been a few occasions when he had wept for the loss of a friend, or due to the sad and heartbreaking atrocities that humans committed against their fellow man.

The forgiving cushions of the couch were a relief to his aching body as he managed to sit slumped against the arm rest. With tremendous effort he tucked his wings back into the either, wincing as they twinged, he really should let them out more often to stretch. Settling back he wiped at his eyes, blinking, trying to focus. What he managed to zero in on however just made his heart clench yet again. Atop his desk was a small framed photo of Crowley, one the demon had actually allowed him to take. It had been on one of their more recent drives through the countryside, something they had been doing more often since the failed apocalypse. 

They had parked at a scenic lookout, planning on a picnic at a nearby knoll. Aziraphale had been walking back to get the rest of the supplies out of the Bentley when he noticed Crowley. The demon was leaning against the driver's side, looking out across the expanse of fields, his glasses were off, and in that moment he had never looked so at peace. The angel had surreptitiously snapped the photo with his phone, hoping to keep it as a private memento, but found he couldn’t keep the secret from the demon, who much to his surprise suggested he frame it. And now that photo was all he had left.

Aziraphale sighed, feeling tears resume their way down his face, he felt drained, his corporation, usually so attuned to him, felt foreign in this moment. Perhaps a rest would do him good, get his wits back. Despite having gotten up just over an hour ago, and after a months long rest at that, the emptiness and pull of sleep seemed enticing.

He lay down, curling against the back of the couch, back to the desk. His eyes closed and a shiver ran through his frame. He reached up blindly grabbing for the throw draped across the back of the couch and pulled. It smelled like Crowley, which made him whimper involuntarily. Woodsmoke and bourbon, with a lingering note of citrus. The demon had scoffed when Aziraphale noted that he smelled nice, but even the angel noticed the tinge of pink that grew at the tips of his ears from the compliment. The throw had always been one of the demon's favorite, cold-blooded creature that he was, the winter months always seemed to be more difficult for him. On those bitter days it wasn’t unlikely for Aziraphale to find the other being curled under this very same blanket in the larger living room in front of the fire. 

Aziraphale shifted again, trying to get comfortable. This sofa wasn’t nearly as nice for impromptu naps as the considerably larger sectional in the living room, but that was on the other side of the house, across the kitchen, and he doubted he had the strength to make it there without collapsing, again. He toed his shoes off, not caring as they clattered to the floor, and tucked his knees to his chest. He prayed for a dreamless sleep, an escape from the agony, even if just for a moment.

Just as he surrendered to the rapidly approaching dark he thought he felt a hand, cool, and lithe brush against his temple, a fleeting touch. His mind had no capacity for any thought after that and blissfully he slipped under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I guess my muse is keeping with me, here is a second chapter!   
> Kudos and comments are much appreciated!


	3. Accusing, Denying

Chapter 2:Accusing, Denying

Crowley knelt in the shade of an outcropping of rocks, blinking sweat out of his eyes. It was blistering hot out today and even being a serpent hurt his scales. Then there was the concern of energy, at this point he didn’t know if he would be able to change back, and a snake, even as large as he was would be no match if Hastur and his yuppies found him. 

For now, he was outsmarting them.

He had returned to the desert, where it all began, it was an unlikely place for him to go, as social of a creature as he was, but he feared that any larger city would make him easier to track. That and the heat and sun of the climate made it near impossible for Hastur to withstand, he was much more suited for the cold, dark and damp. Luckily Crowley had only caught sight of the other demon once, and he doubted that he had been noticed, and odd as it was it was a relief to him, it meant Aziraphale was safe.

Aziraphale, oh Satan, did he miss him. It had been 93 days since he left, it would be Autumn by now in England and he knew how much the angel enjoyed the turning of the leaves, always encouraging little trips to watch the colors change. His heart ached at the thought, although he figured he did think of little else. He wondered how the angel was doing, was he angry with him, did he miss him as much as he did? The demon had considered contacting the American book girl, Anathama, but decided against it. If Aziraphale wished to reach out to others during his absence then that was his choice. 

Speaking of reaching out….he pulled his phone from the inside pocket of the robes he wore. Still nothing, no texts, no calls. He half expected the angel to be blowing up his phone as it were, but not a single thing had come. A long finger traced the photo of Aziraphale he had as his background. Sighing, he pocketed the phone. He wasn’t just out in the desert for nothing, he had a job to do.

Upon leaving The Downs Crowley knew that he was going to have to find somewhere to hide away, and where better than here? The towns were small, and far between, and nobody thought anything of the man dressed in black that joined their tribe. The Bedouins had always been welcoming, even way back, before they were even called that. Crowley instantly became a favorite with the men of the tribe as he was particularly good with the livestock, and quickly was in charge of the majority of the herd. 

‘Sheep go to Heaven, Goats go to Hell.’ For some reason the odd little tune had stuck with him, he had heard it sometime around Adam’s birth. It wasn’t exactly wrong, just an oddity that a human would make a connection such as that, and be right. It was a well known, but little spoken fact that for some reason the damned had a strange way with the hooved hellions. Crowley, embarrassed as he might be to admit it, was no different than any of his brethren in that respect.

Goats, little imps that they were, absolutely adored him.

Aziraphale had quite a laugh at his expense on the Ark due to this certain affinity of his.

The benefit of being ‘master of the herd’ was solitude. During the dry months the herds were taken to the foothills by the river, where the grass was plentiful to graze and have their young. Never in 6,000 years did Crowley envision himself hiding away among goats. It was an odd turn of events for sure, but if it was what was necessary to keep Aziraphale safe, so be it.

His mind strayed yet again to the angel.

He could remember a time when the two had seemed so much more free than they were at this moment-although rightfully this was farthest from the truth. The world was almost simpler back then, just a trade off of temptations and miracles, an occasional meeting over the years, drinks shared in a tent or pub. No insane megalomaniac demons out for your hide. Simpler yes, but nowhere near as satisfying as his life with Aziraphale had been. Was?

Would the angel even take him back?

In his mind he could see the angel, just as he had left him, but now that image blurred with those from the past.

Their first meeting atop the wall of Eden, how despite his cautious nature the angel had spoken with him, laughed, even joked. The sharing of a secret, the first of many between the two. How without a second thought he had sheltered the demon from the oncoming deluge, not caring for a moment that he himself would be soaked. 

The next time they would meet was just before The Flood, he remembered hearing the news about Her wrath, how everyone, even children were to perish. And yet, he couldn’t let that stand. Aziraphale had seen him in the hold, young ones nestled at his feet, and said nothing, coming over to help bandage small wounds, or console the crying, but not a word of reprimand passed his lips.

Memories continued like that. They crowded his senses, making him dizzy. Rome. Wessex. The Bastille. St. James Park, perhaps the most painful other than the bandstand just before everything, well,didn’t end. The Blitz, how Aziraphale had so carefully healed his burned feet despite the fact they hadn’t talked in nearly a century. Aziraphale giving in, providing him with the Holy Water, which ultimately had gotten them into this whole mess. The images flashed through his mind like film going in fast forward. So much of their long past together, but more recent moments too. The night after the failed apocalypse, sitting in comfortable companionship. Their first real ‘date’. A shy, but passionate first kiss. The whispered words ‘I love you.’ And that long awaited moment when Crowley finally was able to say it back.

Every moment was crystal clear, like they had been cut from glass, and try as he might Crowley doubted he could ever forget even a single one.

He had seen so many sides of the angel over the years, but the one thing he considered himself fortunate to not be privy to was the angel's anger. He had seen anxiety, fear, dread, compassion,affection, doubt, disappointment, and most recently, love. But anger, true anger-the fire of the principality, the protector-no. And he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. 

Would Aziraphale be angry? 

He had every right to be, that was for sure, but until this moment the thought of the angel even having the capacity for anger, let alone turning it on Crowley was laughable. Yet that was a very real possibility. There was even a chance that Aziraphale was no longer at the cottage, there was nothing keeping him there, the shield had been for his protection, but certainly did not ensure he couldn’t leave. 

Hastur could have easily completed his goal, and Crowley would be none the wiser. But, no. Hastur was unfortunately like Crowley in one way. He liked to gloat, he would have no issue seeking him out to inform personally of his triumph. That alone would likely give the sadistic bastard more pleasure than actually destroying Aziraphale. Not only that, but if he did manage to--just the thought made Crowley’s heart rebel-- that would mean he was next. There was no doubt in his mind that the subterfuge the two had pulled on Heaven and Hell would quickly be outed, and well, his days would certainly be numbered. Then again, it was also quite possible that he would simply be smitted, an easy quick, once and done move, he wouldn’t even see it coming. 

Trust his mind to come up with that one.

A loud bleating startled Crowley from his reprieve, and he looked up, noticing the herd, which had moved slightly more West towards the riverbank, was currently surrounding a tall robed figure that clearly wasn’t meant to be there.

“Oi!” Crowley stood, cursing himself for allowing the mental wandering and started off towards the agitated animals. As he got closer he felt his stomach drop, he knew that stance, the wide shoulders, short cropped hair, and general demeanor of haughtiness. It was the Archangel Fucking Gabriel himself, the giant pillock.

He looked quite irritated, Crowley noticed with no small sense of satisfaction. A kid had latched onto the hem of his robe and was pulling quite hard for a little guy while others joined in at jumping at the angel. “Would you please. No, get off! Do you know who I am!? Ugh!”

This would be a good time to note that there are ‘smart goats’ and ‘not-so-smart goats’ and Crowley was proud to admit that most of those under his care were quite intelligent, as far as animals were concerned. Sure there were a few dunces among the group, but that issue usually was solved by that wonderful thing that odd man Darwin had dubbed ‘natural selection’.

Crowley took a moment to enjoy the scene. “Don’t listen well, do they?” He drawled.

“Crowley. Good. Get these damn creatures away from me.” Gabriel demanded looking quite put out, still having a tug of war with now three young ones.

“And why,” Crowley hissed lowly, “Would I do that?”

Gabriel pursed his lips, “Don’t you speak to me like that, you-you.” He trailed off.

A sneer and Crowley turned his back, “I have nothing to say to you then.”

“FINE!” Gabriel bellowed, his outburst making the kids scamper off to their mothers. “Would you just wait a moment. It’s a message from The Almighty.”

Crowley, who at that moment had been considering miracling himself and the herd away from the giant prick stopped, but did not turn around. “And why should I believe you.”

Gabriel sighed, sounding quite at the end of his patience. “It’s about Aziraphale.”

Well, that got his attention. 

Crowley turned faster than one could blink, scattering the goats that had congregated at his feet. “What about him?” he growled.

Gabriel raised his hands in a placating gesture, “He’s fine. Well, maybe not emotionally, but”

“I suggest you get to the point,” Crowley spat.

“Alright. The Almighty sent me here to fetch you.”

“I’m not a dog.”

“Would you be silent for one second!” Gabriel exclaimed exasperated. “Good Lord.”

Crowley glared, but said nothing. 

“Right. She wishes to meet with you. Here.” He reached out his hand with a small scrap of paper, not unlike the bit that Agnes’ last prophecy had been on. Satan, he hoped it wasn’t another one of those. He flicked his fingers, the paper instantly floating into his palm. Message or no, he wasn’t about to touch that giant douche.

All it had was a time, a day, and a place. Crowley looked up at Gabriel skeptically. “And why should I believe this?”

Gabriel shrugged, “You don’t have to, but it just means I will be back.”

Crowley allowed himself a snicker, “and when did you become her messenger.”

A muscle in the angels jaw twitched, “Not your concern. I have done my job, do what you will.”

And with that he was gone, leaving several very confused goats, and an irritated, yet hopeful Crowley.

He reached down and gave a gentle scratch to one of the goats. One of the kids butted him in the shin. “Brat.” he said fondly.

With a resigned sigh he took one last look at the message before tucking it away.

_Coney Island Pier, 2pm, Wednesday._

Three days, he had three days to prepare for whatever **SHE** wanted. It had been over six millennia since his time in Heaven, and not a single word, not a prayer answered, and now, here he was being summoned.

Three days, 72 hours, and after that? Well, only She knew that.

‘Its Ineffable,’ he heard Aziraphale say in his mind.

Great, fantastic. He really hated that word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks, this took a bit longer to get out than I was expecting, and I'm sorry that this is all you get! Good news, the next chapter should be up shortly though, as it ties in quite a bit with this one, but I felt like they needed to be separate!  
> As always kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!  
> Until next time!  
> -LiRi


	4. I can't imagine a world with you gone

Aziraphale wrapped the blanket tighter around himself, and shifted, trying to get comfortable again. He usually loved autumn, the changing leaves, the cool crisp air. Long walks enjoying the scenery and the scents of the season. But all he wanted to do right now was stay huddled away in the cottage, lost in the fantastical land of one of his many books.

It had been what? Three months, just about, since Crowley had up and left, and still the gnawing ache that remained of his heart had yet to lessen. Everything he did, or didn’t do, reminded him of the demon. Since that initial realization he couldn’t bring himself to return to their room, to their bed, just the mere thought of it made tears well up in his eyes. All those nights, tangled together, nearly inseparable. And what had Crowley done? Left him. In the night, alone, he hadn’t even had the decency to speak to him.

Sleep was another thing that had gone by the wayside, after that first initial collapse on his day of realization. He had tried to sleep in the spare room downstairs, but quickly decided against it when he woke sobbing, dreams of the redhead still fresh in his mind. Sure, it wasn’t his best idea, refusing to sleep, his mind and body initially rebelled against the concept and he had spent the better part of two weeks in a trance. But to him, the alternative, being constantly bombarded with memories, was worse.

He had briefly entertained the thought of drinking himself into a stupor, but quickly decided against it. Sure, he indulged occasionally, but drinking to excess had never been something he was fond of, besides, that also reminded him of Crowley. Long nights in the dusty back room of his old bookshop, sharing stories over a bottle of fine wine or whiskey. There had even been a few memorable times here in this very house where after a few too many the pull of the other had lead to the exchange of frantic, sloppy kisses that only escalated from there, and both were too inebriated with alcohol and the taste of the other to actually make it somewhere more reasonable than the floor. They had woken the next morning, slightly hungover and chagrined, but happily without any regrets.

No. For Aziraphale the only true coping he had was his books. Loathe as he was to admit it even food no longer had the same appeal as it once had. He shifted again and adjusted the book in his hand. He as a general rule in the past hadn’t been much for the sweeping words and elaborate descriptions of handsome men and lavish parties that the regency era books portrayed, but he had found some comfort in them as of late. It brought almost a sense of nostalgia, and had been a time where he had seen very little of Crowley that the images the books brought to mind rarely included him. At the moment he was just finishing one of Austen’s lesser known works, and had to admit that it was indeed one of his favorites, while perhaps not quite accurate even though written in the correct time period it was still a pleasant read nonetheless.

At the beginning of this rather unprecedented reading binge he had started with Hamlet, thinking that the comfort of an old classic would be nice, but the painful memories it revoked soured the mood. It seemed that no matter what he tried to do, there would always be some type of connection to the demon he couldn’t escape from. He could remember the foolish hairdo that had to be one of the worst over the years, that beard had looked more glued on than natural. The clothes hadn’t been much better, ruffles and voluminous pantaloons did nothing for the demons naturally lanky frame.

And there went his mind again, off on a tangent.

Lord help him, he really wasn’t dealing with this well.

How was he to cope like this, when everything he did, reminded him of Crowley? In the past week he had at minimum a half a dozen break downs over mundane things. From seeing the demons usual coffee cup on the counter, to finding a black sock wedged between the couch cushions in the sitting room, their lives had become so inexplicably entwined that every day brought a fresh wave of agony and loss. It was becoming exhausting. 

Part of Aziraphale, the little voice in the back of his head urged him to return home, to Heaven, to allow the white hallways and gilded gardens to heal his broken heart. But deep down he knew, that wasn’t where he belonged. He was an angel of Earth, a protector of Humanity, he couldn’t give up his calling because of heartbreak. And besides, whether he wanted to admit it or not, Crowley never did say in his farewell that he would be gone forever. This was a fact that his brain, cursed human thing that it was, conveniently forgot on an hourly basis.

Crowley could return.

All Aziraphale had to do was be patient.

In the interim he needed to talk. In the past prayer had helped him. While they had seldom been answered, or even acknowledged just the process had the ability to make him feel more at ease.

But he doubted he could pray here, surrounded by so many memories. He recalled that the village had a local parish, and what better place to speak his heart than a House of God. Just being on hallowed ground could set his mind to rights.

***

It had been awhile since Aziraphale had prayed quite like this, but he hoped that somehow by coming here that maybe, just maybe he would be better heard. The church in the village was quaint, picturesque, with tall elaborate stained glass windows and classic, but well maintained stonework. The inside was cozy, simple, perfect in Aziraphale's mind for its intended purpose, he didn’t quite understand some of the modern houses of worship with their glitz and glamour, as if you could blind the almighty into listening to your prayer. The other nice thing about this particular church was the open door, any hour of the day or night, the door was open for those in need. This also afforded Aziraphale privacy as he decided that he quite liked the idea of a sunrise prayer and was able to do so, alone. He walked between the pews, looking at the hymnals and service programs laid out for that morning's service. It was a Sunday after all. He looked much more like an angel than he had in the past few months, he figured that if he were to do this here it was best to be presentable. His hair was trimmed and neatly brushed, he wore a finely pressed pair of light tan slacks and matching coat, a white shirt, and a powder blue bow-tie. He had even polished his cognac oxfords for good measure. 

Straightening his bow-tie, a constant nervous habit he figured he would never unlearn he approached the altar, bowed, and knelt.

_‘Please Almighty, hear my prayer. I Aziraphale, Principality, and Guardian of the Eastern Gate look for your guidance and wisdom. I fear I am at a loss of how to continue my existence. I know that after everything that I likely will not be welcomed home, and I do wish to stay on Earth, among the humans. My only thoughts as of late have been of Crowley, I know you cast him out, and I would not deign to ask why, or that he be able to return to the cohort. All I ask is that he is safe. He is my reason for being here, my companion. I know that his leaving must be for a reason, but I fear it is due to something I have done. Please, I beg of you, guide me, tell me how to fix this. And if I cannot, I ask that you take my memory of him, I cannot bear the pain.’_

It wasn’t until he spoke the words to her that Aziraphale truly admitted them to himself. If Crowley was truly gone, then he wished not to remember their time together, he knew that he wasn’t that strong.

_‘I know I have no right to ask, but if it's in your will and power, I ask that Crowley return to me, if is his wish as well. Please, hear my prayer, and see it answered.’_

Aziraphale remained kneeling after he finished, he let the calm of the church wash over him, his eyes remained closed as he tilted his head to the sky, the light filtering in through the oculus cast a glow around his form, momentarily lighting his halo and wings still hidden away. A sigh, and he opened his eyes. Somehow he felt at peace, well, more at peace, he was sure it would all crumble the moment the door to the cottage closed behind him, but for now he would take the reprieve from the all consuming sorrow he had been trapped in.

Dawn was well on its way by the time he felt collected enough to stand, and he knew that very soon the clergyman and parishioners would arrive, and he best be off if they were to all be none the wiser that a literal angel had been using their hall of worship. He left the church as he had come, silently, and with no indication anyone had graced the halls in the night. A nippy breeze had picked up, and for a moment Aziraphale regretted not bringing a scarf. The walk was decent, and the fresh air did him good, even if his mood became more and more subdued the closer to the cottage he got. Some of the townsfolk waved or said good-morning as he passed, and he was embarrassed to say he couldn’t recall a single name. He really had become a hermit in recent months.

The path to the cottage through the woods was peaceful at this time in the morning, birds flitted through the undergrowth, and as he walked, he remembered a time not so long ago when he and Crowley had been taking this very path at nearly the same early hour. 

_“Tempt you to breakfast when we get back?” Crowley asked, fingers lacing with Aziraphale’s. The angel blushed, but held tight. They had gone for a dawn flight, a new little indulgence of theirs, it was freeing in so many ways, both had been quite out of breath when they had landed._

_“Oh, I suppose.” Aziraphale responded teasingly. “How do you feel about crepes?”_

_Crowley chuckled, and leaned over to kiss the angels temple. “I could be amenable.”_

The fleeting memory caught Aziraphale by surprise, making him gasp, but instead of tears he felt a flash of white hot anger surge through his veins. He wasn’t quite sure who he was mad at, himself for the thought, or Crowley, for getting them into this whole mess. Either way the new feeling while not positive did make him feel marginally better. He needed to be done feeling sorry for himself, for the situation, as of this moment this was his life. The prayer had helped, it had allowed him to release his thoughts in an organized manner. While deep down he did wish for Crowley to return he could also safely say he wasn’t sure how he would react.

Little did Aziraphale know, but his prayer had been heard, in fact all the events had been seen, catalogued and analyzed by the time he had finished his words in the church. She rarely stepped in, aside from knocking a few heads after the failed Armageddon. She preferred a hands off approach when it came to those in her stead. But this, this monumental screw up, there was nothing for it. Just a nudge would be all it would take to get back on track, it barely counted as interfering. 

Besides, this was after all for the greater good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this and the previous chapter occur somewhat simultaneously I decided to get this one up as well!  
> For anyone interested most of the chapter titles come from Chord Overstreet's 'Hold On'.  
> As always comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!


	5. The joy and the chaos; the demons were made of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a little bit longer than I expected to write. Its still not 100% perfect, but I'm posting anyway! Comments and Kudos are always appreciated!

Crowley was freezing. Not just, oh, it's a bit cold, let me put on a jacket, freezing, but literally freezing. Or at least that was what he felt like. It had taken the three days he had been given to get here, the expected rendezvous spot. Why America, he didn’t know, least of all why She would choose somewhere so utterly depressing as a pier in the late fall was beyond him.

‘Ineffable.’ the voice in the back of his head whispered.

Did he mention he really hated that word?

It was an odd sort of spot for a meeting that was for sure, there were very few people around, the occasional teenage couple, some out of their minds fishermen, and a few other various vagrants. He supposed the view wasn’t half bad, as far as views were concerned. It had been a while since he had seen the Atlantic from this side, but in his opinion, they all looked about the same to him.

“Demon Crowley,” came a voice from behind him. Startled, he whipped around to see Michael standing just a few feet away with an unimpressed look on their face.

“Bollocks,” Crowley mumbled. “What do you want?”

Michael’s nose wrinkled in distaste, “The Almighty is waiting.”

“Oh?” Crowley countered, spreading his arms and turning, “Where?”

Michael said nothing, but raised their hand and snapped.

Crowley landed and leaned over, hands on his knees waiting for the nausea to pass.

“Oops, sorry.” Michael said un-apologetically. Crowley glared, but managed to straighten up. They were in an aquarium, from the looks of it, nearby an entrance to a long underwater tunnel loomed, at the edge stood a woman dressed in a pristine white pantsuit. Her appearance kept shifting so Crowley wasn’t quite settled on what she looked like, but he didn’t need to see, every atom of his corporation could feel the ethereal energy. The woman approached and Crowley managed not to genuflect on the spot, she looked him up and down and gave him a surprisingly warm smile.

“That is all, you may go,” she said softly to Michael, who looked like they wanted to do anything else but.

“But-” Michael began to protest, but halted as the Almighty raised a hand. 

“Leave.” The word was said with such power that Crowley briefly wondered if he should as well. Michael managed a nod, then was gone.

“Ah, better,” she said inspecting her nail with mild interest, “Now, walk with me.”

Crowley, usually so fluid and serpent like with his movement, felt as if he were walking with an iron rod strapped to his back as he hastened to catch up. For several paces into the tunnel she didn’t speak and for a panicked second Crowley wondered if she had set up this meeting to smite him herself. Although doing so in a public place under a glass tunnel with hundreds of thousands of gallons of water, and thousands of fish and other marine life might not be the most likely of places.

At the thought of smiting he imagined in that case the fish would also get fried which made him think of that time in the little back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop where he had quite the hard time pronouncing bouillabaisse, although in retrospect the several bottles of wine hadn’t helped his cause.

“My, that’s quite the expression.” The lilting tone drew him back to the present. She was looking at him almost fondly. “I suppose I don’t have to ask who you are thinking about.”

“I thought you were omnipotent.” He said stupidly.

She laughed, it was an eerie noise, not bad, but ancient, it sent a shiver down his spine. “That may be, but only when I choose to, and it still doesn’t negate that mind reading is rude.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, well.” She turned back to admire the fish. “I suppose you are wondering why I have summoned you.”

Crowley managed, thank someone, not to reply with something overly intelligent like ‘Well Duh’

He figured that a response like that would go over, well, much like a lead balloon.

Again.Smiting.Bouillabaisse.Bad.

It was hard,snippy and witty as he was, to go against his natural inclination, and instead remain silent. 

Fortunately she continued on like he had given a perfectly reasonable answer.

“As a general rule I don’t meddle in the affairs of my angels, and certainly not demons, but for this instance I feel like I must step in.”

“Oookaayyy.” Crowley said, feeling confused.

“It’s rare that I hear a prayer myself, Crowley. So imagine my surprise to hear one from Aziraphale. He has sent his missives along over the eons, but never quite to me directly. Gabriel, as his supervisor was often in charge of any of his prior communications. This one I’m afraid The Metatron felt I needed to hear personally.”

He had seen the angel pray a few times over the many centuries they shared together, and he always looked so at peace. To hear now that Gabriel, the Archangel of douchism himself, had actually been the one getting the prayers, well, something about that just didn’t sit right with Crowley, but he figured now wasn’t the time.

“Unfortunately he wasn’t exactly punctual in delivering the missive, it took him nearly two weeks to do so.” Her face morphed into something resembling irritation. “As such it puts me, and thus you, in a bit of a pinch.” 

“How?” Crowley snipped. 

“Aziraphale asked something of me.” She raised her hand as Crowley opened his mouth to ask “I cannot divulge, that is a private conversation. You will have to ask him.”

“I can’t.” he grumbled.

“Not right now perhaps, no.” She followed a manta with her finger, the creature seeming to take interest. “But when you return.”

“Doubt it.”

She turned, face morphing into a stern grimace. “I figured you held him in a higher regard than that.” 

Crowley flushed, “I do.”

“Then give him a chance. Give yourselves both a chance. It won’t be easy to return, but it is what is right.”

Crowley scuffed his foot on the ground, not sure how to respond.

“You two share something profound, Crowley, it is just in its infancy, but the world, mankind needs and deserves what you two have to offer. I would not insult you by offering a place within the Silver City, even if it was within my power to do so. Being a demon is what you were destined to do.”

In the past, the comment might have stung, sure, he still harbored resentment about his fall, but after 6,000 years as a demon he was quite settled in his ways. It was an odd sort of dichotomy between Heaven and Hell, and eithers view of the other, but in reality they were very much similar. And Crowley had reconciled, for the most part, with his past. Sure, there were times when he would go off on a rant, or have somewhat of a crisis, but in the end he did think he made a better demon than an angel. 

“And Aziraphale?”

She turned, a smile played on her lips “He has always been his own angel, and that will not change. He might be a bit unorthodox compared to the others, but everything has always been open to interpretation.”

“You aren’t, umm” he cleared his throat “angry.”

“No. I gave my angels free will, and the option of choice, not all of them see it that way, but therein lies the beauty.”

“But the apocalypse.”

She waved her hand dismissively, “Need not concern either of you, that, mistake is not your doing. But I fear this has gotten quite off track. I came to you at the behest of Aziraphale yes, but also of my own volition. Running will not solve the problem at hand, and The Morningstar himself has no control over a debt once enacted. I will do you one favor, the rest you must do on your own.”

“Favor? You don’t do-” He stopped, biting his tongue. For a moment he figured he was a goner, but she did nothing.

“I can slow down your enemy, but not for long, I can only shield you both from his sight. Neither the fires of Hell nor Heaven alone will be able to defeat him entirely. It will take you both.”

“If he doesn’t throw me out on my ass first.” Crowley said bitterly.

The almighty raised her eyebrows, “You do have a long road ahead in that to be certain.”

Crowley sighed, “How do I know that-” He stopped himself, questioning Her will, well, that was what got him here in the first place.

If she noticed the slight she said nothing. “I cannot act without gaining something in return, it shows favoritism. But the world cannot be out of balance, this is what you must work to prevent. It is what you both have been doing for millenia.”

So she had been paying attention all those years.

“So you want me to return, and for Aziraphale and I to continue on as if nothing has happened?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the catch.”

She cocked her head, “There isn’t one. As you put it, I know all. I've known about the agreement between you and Aziraphale since it started. Only three beings are aware of it. And I think it is best that way.”

“But it ruined your plans.”

She laughed again. “No. It ruined someone's interpretation of my plans. But that is of no concern to you.”

“What if I don’t return?” he asked. It had crossed his mind, just not going back, eventually the pain would fade, and they would both move on.

“Then the world would suffer.” she said simply. “And somehow I don’t think that is what you really want.”

“No.”

“And Aziraphale? Does he have no say in your decision?”

Crowley sighed. He felt like he was more being scolded than anything else. “He does, but I…..” He paused, thinking of what to say. “This is MY fault. He is in danger because of what I did.”

The words he hadn’t said made his throat itch, he wanted to say it. He was scared. Demons weren't scared. It wasn’t part of their makeup, but here he was, more terrified than he had ever been in 6,000 years, more than he had been during the failed apocalypse, or the bait and switch they had played on Heaven and Hell. Hastur wouldn’t just dis-corporate Aziraphale, he would destroy him. There would be no more late night strolls, outings to small out of the way eateries, hours curled together on the couch. No, his mind really couldn’t imagine the world without his personal ray of sunshine. Even if they never talked again, just knowing he was safe, that would be enough.

“This is not your doing. This is design.” She rebutted.

“Then tell me what I am supposed to do!” Crowley shouted, feeling at the end of his rope. He was tired. Tired of constantly looking over his shoulder, of hiding away. Of the constant ache that had taken up residence in his being since he left. Sick of the nightmares that plagued him, of Aziraphale’s death, gruesome, and tortuously slow. He felt like he was about to snap. And now here She was, telling him to go back, like it was that easy. How many times had he asked for help, for an explanation, for Her understanding. Only to receive nothing in response. 

“Help me.” He managed.

She gave him a look that almost seemed sympathetic. “I will help shield you two, as I said, beyond that, I cannot.” 

He sighed defeated. “Fine.”

A cool hand touched his face, Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin. Sure he would dis-corporate on the spot, but all he felt was a flutter where his soul still held part of Heaven deep within. “You are stronger than you know. I do not forsake, I do not forget, but I cannot turn back time either.”

It was as close to closure he was going to get he supposed. 

“Return Crowley. I will not visit you again.”

And between one moment and the next, She was gone, and Crowley found himself standing alone.

He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, knocking against his glasses as he did so, frustrated he flung them off his face hearing them crack against the hard floor. He had been wound so tight through the meeting that now that She was gone all the energy and tenseness drained from his body at once and he felt suddenly not unlike a cooked piece of spaghetti. Thankfully benches had been strategically placed at intervals through the tunnel, and he sank gratefully onto one leaning to place his head in his hands. It was only in this instant that he realized he was quite alone, in fact all through his little meeting there hadn’t been a soul nearby, he guessed this was her doing, but it very well could be that the place was in fact closed. Thankfully being a demon, this was of little concern to him ultimately.

Sighing he scrubbed at his face a second time, hands running through his hair, which had grown shaggy in the past few months. He hadn’t much cared what he looked like while in hiding, but he supposed it wasn’t too far off from those people he had seen on the pier. Part of him dreaded the idea of going back, he knew that the angel would forgive him, ultimately. But to return knowing the hurt he had caused, and to do so without having the security of even being safe? It wasn’t a reassuring feeling.

He could go back right now, it would only take a single snap and he would be at the front door, but no, that would drain him too much. Plus, a move like that would most definitely get the attention of Hell, and it was still sapping his strength to keep them blind to his location. There were few options, he would have to do this the slow way, not human slow, mind you, but slow for a demon. It would take a few days just to get back to the UK at least. Being in America made things much harder. But he supposed there was a blessing there as well. He was used to large jumps in travel, Hastur, not so much, so even if he had caught onto his tail, there would be little chance he could follow him here. Plus this would give him time to make a plan. He shuddered at the thought. He wasn’t a planner, demon and all that. But going in as he usually did, suave and carefree likely would result in him getting smited by Aziraphale. 

“Gah!” He exclaimed, banging his head back on the glass, scaring away the nurse shark that had been intrigued by the creature outside its containment. ‘Screw planning,’ he thought. When was the last time anything went to plan anyway? Delivery of the Anti-Christ? Nope. The MI-5? Not really. Not even the apocalypse. Sure the subterfuge on Heaven and Hell had worked, but there had been a prophecy helping them out then. He didn’t imagine there was one about this particular predicament.

_ -To Ye who has pissed off thy principality. Prior planning prevents problems. _

Yeah, nope. 

No prophecy, just one giant twit of a demon who had gotten scolded by The Almighty. 

He grumbled again. He really did miss Aziraphale, the angel had always been able to put things into perspective for him in the past. Sure he was fussy and way behind in terms of fashion and modern trappings of the human experience, but that all had been endearing to the demon. But here he had a chance to right his wrongs, and what was he doing? Feeling sorry for himself. Typical.

He stood, dusting off his immaculate jeans and pulled his phone from his back pocket. Still nothing. But nothing didn’t really mean anything, Aziraphale never had quite gotten the knack of owning a mobile phone, he would keep it charged, but using it was another thing completely. He wanted so badly to call him, hear his voice, but he knew the second he did it would make an instant connection between them. He ran his fingers through his hair, pocketing his phone. Standing here wasn’t going to help matters either way. With a last look at the display he focused his mind on a location and closing his eyes, snapped.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading. I plan on updating roughly once a week as work allows, and if my muse is kind enough to cooperate! As always kudos and comments are much appreciated!


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